


All Things Merry & Bright

by IndianSummer13



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Guardian!Jughead, Mutual Pining, Young Jellybean, very mild smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-08-28 18:43:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16728807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndianSummer13/pseuds/IndianSummer13
Summary: The hammering on his apartment door at two in the morning is exactly the kind of reason Jughead Jones had reservations about moving his little sister - now under his guardianship - to the city. When he discovers that the noise is coming from a slightly tipsy, Christmas-costume-wearing young woman named Betty Cooper, he has even more worries about their living situation.However, as December 25th approaches, Jughead discovers they have more in common than he’d suspected, and Christmas in the city becomes a magical time for them all.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe we're nearly in December already! This is a holiday fluff-fest that I'll try to update as regularly as I can, meaning that there's unlikely to be a specific schedule/rhythm to the posting of each new chapter.
> 
> Hope you enjoy x

Jughead pulls the door towards him so that only a thin shard of light filters out onto the hallway carpet from the moon-shaped night-light plugged in bedside his little sister’s bed. He heads back to the living room to tidy away the hot chocolate mugs and wipe the inevitable spillages off of the table, then checks the blanket slung over the couch too, because as much as his kid sister was adamant she only spilled on the wood, there’s a high chance he’s going to have to throw it into the laundry bin.

He tidies and cleans, making sure to keep the noise to a minimum so JB doesn’t wake and demand another three stories about cars or trucks or magic animals. It had, initially at least, greatly pleased him that the last thing she wants to hear is the story of a prince rescuing his damsel in distress. (But now, sometimes he wonders if that’s solely because she  _ was _ the princess in her own fairytale, and it took a jail sentence and an official court order before  _ she _ was the one to be rescued)

The thought does, however, remind him to take a trip to the bookstore when shopping for her Christmas presents because surely someone out there will have written a heroic big brother story she’ll like.

Once he’s finished, he showers for longer than he needs to, taking the time to enjoy the water pressure they get here which is significantly better than in Greendale. The thought has him drifting off for a few minutes, imagining - as he so often does - how different things might have been if his mom hadn’t left and his dad hadn’t gone to jail for the foreseeable future.

After Jughead dries off and pulls on a clean pair of sweats and a t-shirt, he hits the button on the coffee machine and sets the prison documentary series he’s been watching after JB goes to bed to play. There’s one thing to be said about being a single pseudo-parent home on a Friday night: he might have to sit through the same favoured episode of  _ Bill Nye Saves the World _ a million times, but at least he doesn’t have to negotiate with someone else about which drama series to commit to.

“Jughead!” he hears, less than half-way through the first of his episodes. He gets up - no sigh for the disturbance when the only reason his sister calls for him like this is that she’s checking he’s still there. He remembers enough times when he’d wandered from his room to the trailer’s living room in bare feet, clutching Hot Dog the stuffed animal as he went in search for either one of his parents, revving engines and fist fights having woken him.

“What’s up Jelly?” Jughead asks, peeking through her doorway. 

“Can we get a tree tomorrow?”

So it isn’t just to check that he’s still there. Maybe, he hopes, he’s proven it enough. “Jellybean Jones, we won’t be getting a tree at all if you don’t go to sleep!” he tries to chide, but there’s no real strength in his voice. 

“But Jug,” she whispers. “Where will Santa put the presents? He’ll think we forgot!”

“It’s too early to get one this weekend,” he reasons. Last year - their first Christmas as just the two of them - all the needles dropped before Christmas Day and the apartment was like some sort of trap set up to maim both their feet. “Maybe next weekend. If you promise to go to sleep though, tomorrow we’ll go visit Santa with your list.”

Sometimes, he can’t quite believe that he now both uses and accepts bribes just so his sister will go to sleep. 

“Okay,” Jellybean agrees, settling her head back on the pillow. And then, “I love you.”

It gets him each time, and his throat feels thick. “I love you too.” She grins. “Now go to sleep.”

Jughead closes the door again, leaving just enough room that he’ll hear her if she shouts in an  _ actual _ emergency, and heads back to the couch to see whether the guy on death row has made his final meal choice.

Perhaps it’s stupid, watching this kind of a documentary series when his dad is inside, but it provides some strange sort of comfort he doesn’t quite understand. It’s probably for the best, he decides. A psychologist would have a damn field day.

  
  
  
  


Jughead makes it to episode six - the third of the night - when, outside, he hears a banging...or maybe not quite a banging, but more of a scrabbling against the door. He pauses the episode and makes his way across the room to the peephole, then frowns when he sees a woman leaning against the wall, seemingly trying to jam her keys in the lock. 

He pulls off the chain and she pretty much falls into him, tripping over either her own feet or his - he’s not sure. He steadies her with a hand around her waist, which he snatches away quickly, and that’s when he notices her outfit: a short green dress and a somewhat lopsided hat. He thinks (and then has his thoughts confirmed when he glances down at her shoes and sees elf-like points with bells on the end) that she’s been to some sort of Christmas costume party. And she’s drunk.

“What are you doing in my apartment?” she mumbles, looking up with suspicious green eyes.

“This is  _ my _ apartment,” Jughead corrects, pointing at the number on the door. “Which number do you live at?”

“This one.” 

“Maybe you got the wrong floor?” He suggests, catching her just as she stumbles forward again, a raspy “oops” tumbling out of her mouth with a hint of a giggle - which displays a rosy blush either side of her face. 

“Or  _ you _ did.”

“Pretty sure I’m right,” Jughead returns, keeping his hands on her forearms so she doesn’t land on her face. “What number are you looking for?”

She raises her eyes at him. “This one.”

He can’t quite help the grimace that he knows he’s just made. “414 - are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” A pout settles on her lips and she sighs. “I just want some coffee.”

If he doesn’t know where she lives, he figures he can’t really offer her much else. “I guess I can help you there.”

He sets a fresh pot to brew while the woman settles herself on the couch, and then has a silent panic over just what the hell he’s doing.

“What’re you watching?” she asks, unpausing the episode before he can answer. 

“A View From Inside,” Jughead tells her anyway, very much sticking to the kitchen area. He can still smell the faint scent of vanilla from her hair when she’d fallen into him, and he’s aware that it’s not, in any way, unpleasant. 

“I like murder mysteries,” she says as she sinks against the cushions. “They remind me of Nancy Drew.” A yawn escapes her mouth. “I wanted to be her when I was younger.”

He can’t really see that, given these circumstances, he thinks, taking in the back of her head now that her hat is resting on her lap. He remains quiet.

The coffee starts to drip through into the clean jug and he wonders if maybe he should offer her something to eat to soak up the alcohol.

“Hey -” he stops abruptly, realising that he has no idea what her name is. “I’m Jughead, by the way.”

She turns at that, wrinkling her nose in a way that almost makes him smile. She kind of  _ does _ look like an elf. “That’s a funny name.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah.”

“I’m Betty,” she tells him, followed by a yawn. “Do you have coffee yet?”

Jughead smiles despite himself. “Almost.”

When the drips have finally stopped, he pours two mugs full. “Milk?” he asks, but there’s no reply. “Betty?”

She still doesn’t answer and so he heads over to the front of the couch, which is where he finds her passed out on the cushions. “Betty?” he asks again, shaking her gently, but still she doesn’t wake.

There is, he considers, now a woman in his apartment who won’t wake; who lives somewhere in his building but appears unsure as to exactly where. Oh, and he has a sleeping six-year-old in the next room. 

He contemplates the situation and shakes her a little more roughly. Still, she doesn’t wake and the last thing he wants to do is shout and end up waking Jellybean. On a sigh, decides he can’t really do much other than stay up watch her without  _ actually _ watching her. There’s a blanket in his room (the very one he’s had since he was Jellybean’s age; the only thing of any sentiment other than his grey beanie that he’d brought to the city from Greendale) and Jughead collects it from the end of his bed. It’s a little (okay, maybe a lot) threadbare, but there’s something about the knitted blue-grey rectangle that’s comforting.

Gently, he drapes the blanket over Betty, her elf shoes poking out of the end, and then takes one of the mugs of coffee in his hands. Netflix is still playing his documentary, and he leaves it on but with the volume turned down so no sudden noises will wake either JB or the woman on his couch. He watches it anyway, sipping at the coffee as the inmate on screen is handed his meal - a burrito supreme and cinnamon twists, which he has a lot of thoughts about - and Betty snores softly.

Jughead stays at the little table he uses to help his sister do her homework, and pours himself a second mug of coffee immediately after he’s finished the first. 

It’ll likely, he figures, be a long night.

  
  
  
  
  


He’s startled awake in the morning by a squealing Jellybean, and instantly assumes something is wrong. He forgets the events of last night for a moment until his sister claps excitedly,

“There’s an elf on our couch!”

He’s mad at himself for falling asleep with a stranger in the apartment and a six-year-old in the next room, but on quick inspection nothing untoward appears to have happened. Jughead breathes out a sigh of relief and is about to state the obvious fact about the existence of elves when Betty herself jolts awake.

The action must hurt though, because she then lifts a palm to her forehead. “This isn’t my apartment,” she mumbles, blinking between him and JB.

“No,” he replies.

“Then why… oh,” she seems to recall the events from the early hours of the morning. “You let me stay here.”

“Jellybean, go read in your room,” he instructs. 

“But -”

“- Go!” he half-shouts, and then winces because he hadn’t intended it to come out like that. His sister obeys though, head cast downwards so that the ponytail she’s slept in is jutting out at an alarming angle. 

“I didn’t realise you had a daughter,” Betty says, her face flaming. “I feel terrible.”

“She’s my sister,” he says quickly. And then, “She was asleep - luckily.”

“Right.”

There’s a long pause, during which Jughead watches her wring her hands. 

“I know this is going to sound unlikely,” she tells him. “But I never get drunk.”

“It’s pretty dangerous - forgetting where you live. I could be  _ anybody _ .” He raises his eyebrows to illustrate that he’s half-joking. But still - he dreads to think about the apartment she  _ could  _ have ended up in.

“Yeah,” she considers. “It was stupid. Think I’ll cut all ties with eggnog from now on.”

He grimaces. “Surely mixing raw egg, cream and alcohol is a terrible idea.”

Betty waves her hand. “I don’t want to relive it.”

He finds himself smiling fractionally. “That’s probably for the best.”

“What floor are we on?”

“Fourth,” Jughead replies. This is 414.”

Betty nods. “I was so close. I’m 415.” There’s another pause and she pulls herself up from the couch. “Really, I’m truly sorry for… crashing here, like I did.”

He nods.

“Please apologise to your sister for me.”

On cue, Jellybean pokes her head around the doorway - having very obviously been eavesdropping. “Are you going back to the North Pole?”

“Jelly -” Jughead starts, but is interrupted by Betty. 

“- Not all of us live with Santa,” she says conspiratorially. “Some of us live right here in New York so we can check up on all the girls and boys.”

His sister’s eyes widen and he wonders how the hell he’s managed to get into a situation where elves aren’t just fictional characters. He has enough of a job with the tooth fairy. “Are you checking up on  _ me _ ?” she asks.

Betty pretends to think, lifting her forefinger to her bottom lip where she taps it gently. He realises then that the flesh is plump and soft-looking, and he wonders, absently, if she coats it in flavoured balm. “Have you been good?” 

Jellybean nods. “I always do my homework.”

Betty smiles. “That  _ is _ good.”

“And I go to bed when Jughead tells me to.”

She smiles again, “Santa will be pleased. You know, it’s important that you sleep well so you can learn in school.”

Jellybean stares between them both for a moment and then takes some steps towards Betty to stroke her dress. Jughead watches as she tugs gently on the little pocket and asks, “Will you stay for breakfast? It’s bacon day.”

“Oh,” she replies, somewhat surprised. “I don’t think -”

“- Do elves like bacon?” Jellybean interrupts. “We always have bacon on Saturdays.”

“You know what?” Betty asks. “Elves  _ love _ bacon, but I need to get back to my apartment and then check up on the other boys and girls in the building.”

“You can stay,” Jughead offers quietly. “If you want. There’s plenty.”

“I think I’ve imposed on you enough,” she smiles. “But thank you.”

He nods and walks her to the door, and as she opens it, she turns, a frown creasing her forehead. “Jughead and Jellybean huh?”

“Nicknames,” he says. “The real things are worse.”

Her smile is wide and if he’s not mistaken, it makes the corners of her eyes crinkle a little. She could pass for an elf, he finds himself thinking. 

“Wait!” Jellybean calls. “What’s your name?”

“Betty,” she answers. “And you’re Jellybean, right?”

His sister nods vehemently. “Jellybean Jones.”

“Well then,” Betty says, crouching so she’s at eye-level. “I’ll make sure to tell Santa to put you on the nice list.”

She closes the door quietly behind her and Jughead rubs at the back of his neck, blinking tiredly. “Okay JB, pancakes or waffles?” 

  
  
  
  
  


Early in the evening, there’s a knock on the door. Jughead tosses the towel he’s using to dry the dishes from dinner onto the counter and Jellybean pauses in her colouring to look up. 

“It’s okay,” he tells her - like he always does when she hears that sound. It physically hurts him that she associates the noise with being taken away, and he wonders how many more times he’ll have to reassure her that the piece of paper from the courts means she’ll stay here now - always. 

She nods and repeats his last word. “Okay.”

When he looks through the peephole, he sees Betty on the other side clutching a tupperware box.

“Hey!” she says brightly when he opens the door. 

“Hi.”

“I made you some cookies. To, uh…. apologise. I really  _ do _ feel terrible about last night.”

Jughead takes the tub from her outstretched hands. “You really didn’t have to…” he trails off, having lifted the lid to reveal a collection of perfectly-iced candy cane shaped cookies. “But uh… these  _ do  _ look pretty good.”

“My signature gingerbread recipe,” she tells him, her voice a little louder. Loud enough, it seems, to register with his sister.

“Betty?” Jellybean questions, almost tripping over in her bid to get to the door quickly. She gasps when she sees her. “Where are your elf clothes?”

“In my closet,” she replies without missing a beat. “I save them for when I’m visiting children.”

Jughead glances down at his sister whose eyes are wide as saucers. “Betty made us some cookies.”

“Really?” she squeals. “Are they like the ones at the North Pole?”

He shows her the iced treats and a giant grin spreads across her face. “They’re like the ones Santa has in my book!”

“Shall I tell you a secret?” Betty asks. “It’s a secret recipe - they’re Santa’s favourite.”

“Can we have one now?” Jellybean pleads. “Please?”

“I’ll tell you what,” he decides, seizing his opportunity. “You have your bath first, and then we’ll have hot chocolate with one of Betty’s cookies.”

“Will you stay?” she asks Betty. “And tell me all about the North Pole?”

Jughead looks at the woman standing at the entrance to their apartment apologetically. “JB, I think Betty’s probably very busy and -”

“- I can stay,” she offers. “For a little while.”

“Yeah?” Jellybean asks hopefully, and he echoes her in a tone that he hopes she understands as meaning you really don’t have to.

“If I’m not interrupting your evening?” she checks, and then adds, “Again.”

He opens the door wider and gestures for her to come in. “I should warn you that Saturday nights are movie nights, and it’s always her choice.” He raises an eyebrow as he tells her, “She has an eclectic taste.”

Betty laughs and clasps her hands. “I look forward to your choice, Jellybean.”

Jughead offers her the couch as he hurries his sister towards their tiny bathroom, and he manages to wash her hair in record time without any of the usual squirming and complaints of shampoo in her eyes. He towels her off and helps her into her pajamas - bought after a heated debate in Target centered around the fact that pajama bottoms with an attached tutu wouldn’t be comfortable sleepwear. He’s been his sister’s legal guardian for over a year now (and her unofficial one for two years prior to that) and he’s  _ still _ unsure as to how she likes so many overtly girly things. He has, thankfully, narrowly avoided Frozen, but there are still pink sparkly shoes next to his boots and bows in a little box on her set of drawers that he has to sort-of jam into her hair and hope for the best. He’ll be damned though if she doesn’t get to make her own choices after everything. 

“Jug,” Jellybean whispers. “Do you think Betty will make sure daddy gets a gift on Christmas?”

He swallows with difficulty. “I don’t think we should ask her that JB,” he says gently. “Maybe she’ll tell you the secret recipe for the candy cane cookies though.”

Jellybean considers this for a moment, then nods. “Okay.”

In the living room, Betty is seated on their couch flicking through Netflix. She looks up as they enter and gushes over Jellybean’s tutu pajamas, asking her to twirl on the spot which delights her immensely. 

“Would you like something to drink?” Jughead asks. 

“Coffee would be great,” she smiles. “Thank you.”

“I’d like coffee too,” his sister announces, pausing in her twirling.

Jughead runs his hand through his hair, pushing back the wave that always insists on flopping forwards. Maybe he should get it cut. “We’ve talked about this Jelly,” he says. “When you’re sixteen you can try it.”

“But Jug-head,” she protests, separating his name into two very crisp syllables before forming her lips into the pout she’s perfected over the last six years of her life. “I want to be like the elves!”

Betty shoots him a wink as she bends closer. “You know Jellybean, at the North Pole, all of the elves drink hot chocolate. It helps them build the toys faster. They only have coffee when they’re really _ really  _ tired.”

“Oh.”

He watches as the little girl thinks for a moment, then nods. “I’d like hot chocolate,” she decides, and he raises his eyebrow. “Please.”

“One hot chocolate it is,” he says, shooting Betty a grateful smile. She returns it and then begins questioning his sister about the pictures stacked into a relatively neat pile on the coffee table. 

  
  
  
  
  


The end credits of The Santa Clause roll up the screen and Jellybean begins a hopeful campaign to watch The Santa Clause 2. Because  _ of course.  _

“It’s already past eight,” Jughead says by way of response. “You should be in bed.”

The pout makes its reappearance but she clambers off of Betty’s lap where she’s spent the past two hours, and turns to rest her hand on her knee. “Will you visit again?”

“I’m sure we’ll see each other,” Betty replies. 

“Will you bring more cookies?”

“ _ Jelly, _ ” Jughead warns, and then watches his sister hang her head. 

Betty looks sympathetic, and says gently, “I’ll see what I can do.”

That cheers her up, and she offers a wave on her way to bed. Betty rises from the couch too and takes the empty mugs over to the kitchen, running the tap to rinse out the remnants of dark liquid. 

“You can leave them,” he tells her. “I’ll do them later.”

Her voice is soft when she replies. “Okay… I guess I’ll see you.”

Jughead finds that he doesn’t particularly want her to go back across the hall - not really - and so he offers, “There’s still more coffee in the pot? I’ll be five minutes if you want to… uh….” he stumbles over his words, not really knowing what to say, but Betty smiles.

“Yeah? That sounds good.”

As he disappears into Jellybean’s room, he hears the running water in the sink and figures she’s cleaning the mugs anyway. He manages bedtime without having to read too long of a story - tonight it seems his sister is content with  _ The Christmas Star _ \- and the little night light plugged in beside her bed casts a warm glow as he closes the door behind him.  

As he’d suspected, Betty has cleaned the plates and mugs from earlier and is busy pouring coffee back into them when he rejoins her at the counter. 

“Sorry she insisted on sitting in your lap,” Jughead says, opening the cupboard to get the sugar. 

“No need to apologise - she’s pretty amazing.”

He smiles involuntarily. “She’s something.”

They each take their respective mugs back to the couch, and this time she pulls her legs up and underneath her. “She’s your sister,” Betty begins. “But she lives with you?”

He swallows his mouthful of coffee. “Yeah.”

“Are your parents… I mean, did they -”

“- _ Die? _ No.” His tone is more bitter than he’d intended it and he tugs at the edge of his flannel shirt. 

“Sorry,” she apologises. “I was being nosy - I shouldn’t have asked.”

“My mom left,” he tells her. “Jelly was two. “My dad drinks and now he’s in jail.”

Her mouth forms an ‘o’ but no sound escapes until, eventually, she says, “It’s a brave thing that you’re doing.”

He scoffs because it was the  _ only _ thing he could do. 

“It is,” she insists. “It can’t be easy.”

He doesn’t say anything to that because it  _ isn’t _ easy. If anything, it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done. “So,” he says, changing the subject. “You’re new to the building?”

Betty wraps her fingers around her mug, cradling it as she blows over the top to cool the coffee. “Yeah, I only moved here last week from Boston.”

“That’s where you’re from?”

“No,” she shakes her head. “That’s where I went to college. I’m from upstate - this tiny town called Riverdale and -”

“- Riverdale?” Jughead cuts in. “I’m from Greendale!”

“Over-the-river Greendale?” she clarifies, eyes wide in surprise. “That’s crazy!”

He lets a burst of air leave his mouth - something like a chuckle - before he takes a sip of coffee. “Small world.”

It’s quiet for a moment with only the sound of intermittent sipping until Betty asks, “So what do you do?”

“I’m an editor,” he replies. “Just a small publishing company in the city.”

“That’s great!” Betty says, and seems to genuinely mean it. “I write for NYCLife Magazine.”

“What department?”

“Features,” she answers. “We’re relatively small but growing - mainly online.”

“Do you enjoy it?” he asks her. “Writing, I mean.”

“I love it.”

“It’s what I always wanted to do,” Jughead admits, in a rare moment of unprompted honestly. “Before I…. well,  _ before. _ ”

The woman next to him appears to contemplate something, gnawing on her bottom lip so that when she releases it from between her teeth, there are tiny little indents in the skin. “A lot of writers submit articles freelance. We publish lots from people who don’t actually work specifically for the company.”

He nods, and decides not to say that that’s not the kind of writing he meant. 

“Your coffee’s good by the way,” she smiles. “Strong, but not the kind of strong that gives you a headache.”

He smiles and takes the compliment. “Thanks - at least you’re awake tonight. You fell asleep before you got chance to taste it last time.”

She flushes and shakes her head. “I’m embarrassed.  _ And _ I was dressed in that stupid costume my friend at work made me wear. Definitely not the most flattering thing I’ve ever worn,” she laughs, and before he can stop himself, Jughead hears himself saying,

“I thought you looked pretty cute.”

He’s horrified at the sound, but then a wide smile stretches Betty’s mouth across her face as a blush creeps further into her cheeks. He thinks there might be one on his too. She dips her head as she says, “Thanks,” and he finds himself stealing glances at her while she sips the remaining coffee. 


	2. Two

Betty heads to the subway station with her gloved hands plunged deep into her pockets and her chin buried into the warmth of her scarf. Above her, the clouds are grey and heavy, but still the snow doesn’t fall. It’s been like this for weeks now - ever since Halloween and the sweep of freezing air from the north had settled over the east coast. She’s beginning to wonder whether they’ll get any snow at all.

She buys coffee at the little stand, gratefully cupping her fingers around its circumference as she waits for the train to rattle into the station, and then steps into the car with the rest of the commuters. 

Across from her, a little girl sits on her mom’s lap, dressed in the kind uniform worn at prep schools, her hair braided into two neat plaits that are tied with navy ribbons at the end, and Betty thinks of her somewhat strange weekend spent with Jughead and his sister. Strange, she thinks again, but nice all the same. 

She finds herself thinking about her neighbour as she exits at Wall Street amongst the towering buildings, and only switches focus when she pushes open the large glass door of the magazine’s building.

She rides the elevator up to the fifth floor and is greeted by Veronica Lodge - the sole reason she was dressed as an elf and drinking eggnog on Friday night - who chirps,

“Good morning! Cute dress.”

“Morning,” Betty replies. “And thank you, but I only got it at H&M.”

Veronica shrugs and taps her pen against her painted lips. “How was your head on Saturday?”

“Sore,” she answers. “Yours?”

“Same.” 

Both of them laugh and then Betty adds, “I’m never drinking that stuff again.”

“I tried to warn you!” Veronica chides. “I can’t even believe you drunk it in the first place. It’s literally eggs and cream mixed with booze.”

“It’s festive,” she tries to defend, but just the mere thought of the stuff makes her stomach turn. “But yeah, maybe I should stick to wine next time.”

“Or maybe just something that isn’t 90% dairy.”

“That sounds like a good idea.” Betty tells her. “I guess I should head to my desk before anyone thinks I’m late.”

“Please,” Veronica rolls her eyes. “You were like a half hour early all last week _and_ you’re early today. Nobody would think you’re late.”

“But still,” she replies, pointing with her index finger over Veronica’s shoulder. “I should get to work.”

  
  
  
  
  


The day passes rather quickly, with most of her time invested in two major articles for the upcoming issue, and on her way home Betty stops by the little grocery store close to her apartment building to pick up some instant hot chocolate mix plus mini marshmallows. Since the weekend, she’s kind of been craving it and despite the fact that she’d usually avoid the powdered stuff, she’s had enough heavy cream to last her the month so she’s not about to make the drink from scratch. 

She’s juggling her purchases alongside her purse while simultaneously trying to unlock her apartment door when she hears a voice asking a whole host of questions without pause. She turns to see Jughead and Jellybean heading towards her - and, obviously, their apartment across the hall.

“See!” Jellybean exclaims. “She  _ is _ real!”

“I didn’t say -” Jughead starts, and then trails off with a sigh as she tugs her hand free, running up to Betty who now has her door open. She’s patted down by a tiny palm and watches, amused, as the little girl widens her eyes at her brother indignantly. 

“I  _ told  _ you.”

“Sorry,” Jughead apologises as he reaches her, running a hand through his hair to push it back from his forehead. The effort goes to waste when it flops forward again a mere two seconds later. 

“My school said you weren’t real,” Jellybean complains. 

“She told them an  _ elf _ that lives in our building came to visit her this past weekend,” he elaborates. “And brought special North Pole cookies.”

One of his eyebrows is raised and Betty can’t quite tell if he’s mad at her for it or if he’s amused. It is, of course, adorable, and she can’t feel too guilty when she bends down to Jellybean’s level to whisper,

“Some people don’t have as vivid imagination as you, Jellybean.”

“Will you come?” she asks? “Come to my class and show them all I wasn’t lying?”

This time, Betty  _ does _ feel guilty, and gnaws on her lip as she thinks of what to say. Thankfully, Jughead saves her.

“Maybe it should just be our secret.”

The little girl’s dark eyebrows knit together as she contemplates his suggestion. “But then only you and me will know.”

“And Betty,” he adds. “She’ll know too.”

“And Santa?” 

Betty laughs, squeezing Jellybean’s shoulder gently. “And Santa.”

A smiles breaks out across her face and she catches Jughead’s eye, relieved. “What do you have in there?” his sister asks, tugging at the edge of the bag tucked under her arm. 

Betty shows her inside of the bag and she gasps. “You’re having North Pole hot chocolate! Can we have some?”

“ _ Jelly, _ ” Jughead warns, but already she’s staring hopefully with those dark eyes and it’s not like she had any other plans.

“If it’s okay with your brother,” she chances, “then it’s okay with me.”

“Please?” the little girl asks, and Betty can already see that he’s resigning himself to losing this one.

“Just a half hour - you have reading homework.”

As if she doesn’t hear the last part, Jellybean claps her hands and half-pushes past Betty to get into her apartment. 

There are still a couple of cardboard boxes she’s yet to unpack, and she’s not  _ entirely  _ sure she’s happy with the furniture arrangement, but her small guest gasps as the lamp beside the couch lights up the room. 

“It’s pretty!”

It isn’t - not really - but she supposes that the pale grey walls, almost lilac-hued, and cream couch  _ are _ more girly than Jughead’s magnolia and charcoal combination. The blanket she keeps folded on the couch’s arm is swiftly tugged and snuggled into, and she smiles as Jellybean squashes herself in amongst the scatter cushions. 

“I’m sorry,” Jughead apologises as Betty flicks on the light hanging above the little kitchen island after setting down her bag of ingredients.

“Don’t be,” she assures. “I don’t mind - honestly.” It’s the truth: she hasn’t made any real friends here in the city yet - other than Veronica, but she seems to spend most of her time away from work with her boyfriend - and it’s quite nice to have someone else to talk to. 

“Are you having one too?” she asks. “I’ll add extra marshmallows...”

He gives her a lopsided grin and there’s a little skip in her chest that steals her breath momentarily - something she decides she should probably ignore. “If it’s as good as your cookies, how can I say no?”

“You can’t.” In a rare moment of confidence, she winks at him and if she’s not mistaken, a blush creeps across his cheeks.  

There’s a pause where he seems not to know what to do, but then he asks, “Can I help?”

“It’s just powder and warm milk,” Betty replies. “I’ve got it.”

As she pours the milk into the saucepan, she listens to Jughead reminding Jellybean that at school tomorrow, she should talk about something other than elves and the North Pole. The conversation moves on to books and then multiplications, and she continues stirring as somehow, it shifts in a wildly different direction - this time to braiding hair.

“I did a perfectly good ponytail today,” Jughead tells his sister, flicking the end for added emphasis. Betty smiles to herself:  _ it isn’t bad, _ she considers, but the red bow is somewhat lopsided.

“But Ella had  _ braids _ with bows at the end. That’s what I want.”

The milk reaches a simmer and she turns off the gas, tipping the scalded liquid over the chocolate powder. It froths at the top and she stirs it until the powder has dissolved, after which she adds the marshmallows.

Jughead sighs and admits he doesn’t know how to braid hair. 

“Here you go!” Betty announces, handing over the hot chocolates. There isn’t quite enough room and so she settles on the rug, feet tucked under her. 

“Here,” Jughead says, rising from the couch. “Have a seat - it’s your couch.”

She shrugs. “I’m fine, really.”

He looks as though he doesn’t quite believe her, and instructs Jellybean to put her drink down on the table. “But why do I -” she starts, and loses the rest of her question on a shriek as he hoists her off of the couch and onto his knee.

“So that Betty can sit down,” he answers, and then hands his sister her mug again. “Now drink your North Pole hot chocolate.”

He winks at her and Betty smiles as Jellybean tells them both that it’s the nicest drink she’s ever had. 

Of course, the quiet lasts only a few seconds before the little girl begins her barrage of questions: _ Do you know the reindeer? Is there a Mrs Claus like in the movies? When will you go back to the North Pole? Do you have magic powers? _

By the time Jellybean has finished her hot chocolate, Betty feels a little exhausted. She wonders both if they’ve made a mistake in indulging the elf thing, and how Jughead finds the energy not only to answer all of the questions she asks him, but how he does everything else too without any real evidence of tiredness. 

“Okay,” he announces, lifting her off of him so he can stand. “We should let Betty spend her evening in peace.”

“I don’t mind,” she tells him with a small shrug. 

“You’re being polite,” he says, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “She talks a lot and she also spills things.” He stage-whispers the last part, and his sister plants her hands on either hip indignantly.

“I was careful!”

“You were,” Betty smiles, standing up also. 

She walks them both to the door despite the fact that her entire living room is about half the size of his, and then finds herself not particularly wanting either of them to go. 

“You know Jellybean,” she says “I can braid hair.”

“You can?”

“Absolutely. How about the time time I see you, I’ll show you?”

“And Jug? You’ll show him so he can do it for me?”

She chances a look at her neighbour and finds he has a raised eyebrow: A figurative  _ really? _

“Of course.”

She claps excitedly as she had when Jughead had said she could stay for hot chocolate, and a warm, wide smile spreads from his lips all the way up to his eyes. It makes him look younger, Betty thinks, and they say their goodbyes at the door. 

She doesn’t close it until they’ve both disappeared into their apartment after Jughead has raised his hand in a wave goodnight. 

  
  
  
  
  


The following morning, a little before six-forty, there’s a knock at Betty’s door. She spoons in another mouthful of cereal and mutes the news, chewing and swallowing more quickly than she’d ever been allowed to back in Riverdale. 

Through the peephole she spies little Jellybean, and promptly opens her door.

“Good morning,” she greets, smiling down at the dark-haired, dark-eyed little sister of the only other person she knows in the building. There’s no sign of Jughead, but she spots the hairbrush in his sister’s left fist, two bows of mis-matching colour in the other.

“Can you please braid my hair?”

“Sure,” she answers, “But Jellybean, where’s your br-”

Betty doesn’t finish her question because she gets her answer in that moment, the door opposite flying open to reveal a panic-stricken Jughead.

“JB,” he half-shouts, wild-eyed. “You can’t run off like that!”

The little girl turns around. “I didn’t run off. I came to see if Betty would do it for me.”

“You can’t…” he trails off, seeming to realise where he is and what time in the morning they’re having this discussion, and then lowers his voice. “You can’t just knock on Betty’s door - it’s not polite.”

Betty herself watches as the little girl crosses her arms over her chest. “I said  _ please. _ ”

“That’s not…” he runs a hand through his hair - that same wave she’s seen flop forwards on several occasions before tumbling defiantly. “That doesn’t make it okay.”

_ It is, _ she wants to say. It _ is  _ okay that she’s knocked on her door, but she doesn’t want to undermine Jughead, and so she bends to Jellybean’s level. “How about you see me after school? Then I can show your brother too.”

He smiles at her - gratefully, she thinks - and holds his own front door open wider. “I’m sure you can cope with a ponytail for one more day.”

Jellybean seems to contemplate this for a moment and then reluctantly agrees. “But braids tonight?”

Betty nods. “Braids tonight, after your homework.”

Jughead’s grin grows, and she finds herself smiling back. Briefly, there’s a fleeting question regarding whether she would’ve insisted the same had she gotten to spend time like this with Juniper and Dagwood, but she decides it’s probably best not to think about it. 

“I think you have something to say to Betty,” he tells his sister, widening his eyes in encouragement. 

“Thank you,” she says, and Jughead looks exasperated.

“I didn’t mean -”

“-It’s fine,” she smiles. “Really. Have a good day at school Jellybean.”

She keeps the door open until her neighbours head back inside of their own apartment, and then collects her bowl of now-soggy cornflakes. After draining the milk, she tips the mushy cereal into the trash and then makes her way to the bathroom to brush her teeth before leaving for work.

  
  
  
  
  


“Okay Betty, you’re coming to my place on Friday night,” Veronica announces the following morning whilst holding up her left hand to reveal a large princess-cut diamond seated on her ring finger. 

“Oh my gosh! Congratulations!” she gushes as the light catches the stone and her colleague beams. 

“Thank you. Reggie and I are having a pre-engagement party gathering to celebrate our upcoming nuptials and you  _ must _ be there.”

“Okay,” Betty agrees (though it’s not like there’s any room to decline) “Thanks.”

“Excellent!” Veronica claps.  

Over the course of the morning, she works on some research for her next article and meets her newly-engaged colleague again in the break room. 

“Why don’t you bring a plus one on Friday?” she suggests. “The more the merrier.”

“Oh, I’m not… I don’t really know anybody,” Betty replies. 

“Seriously?” Veronica frowns. “Isn’t there anyone you could bring? No hot guys in your building or at the gym or... wait - you just blushed!” she says excitedly. “Which one is it? Building or gym?”

“Veronica -”

“-  _ Betty. _ ” One of her dark eyebrows is cocked and there’s a smirk written across her face.

“It’s nothing.”

“If you’re avoiding the subject, it’s _something,_ and I for one am in love with love,” she decides. “So just invite him and you never know, there might be some strategically-placed mistletoe.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And _ you’re _ crushing.”  

Veronica flounces out of the open door with her left hand wrapped around a travel mug of coffee and Betty silently debates whether or not she actually  _ can  _ ask Jughead. She remembers him saying something about not going out, and decides  _ probably not. _

  
  
  
  
  


The afternoon comes and goes in a flurry of editing and rewriting, and before she’s realised what time it is, Betty’s stomach growls loud enough that she knows it’s time to go home. She turns off her monitor and wraps herself up to brave the elements, sliding her chair beneath her desk as she leaves. 

The train across the river is packed and she exits at Bergen Street to make the relatively short walk to her building. When she reaches the fourth floor, she’s barely gotten her keys out before the door of the apartment opposite hers opens and an excited little voice cries,

“Betty!”

Jellybean is smiling widely at her, dressed in pajamas while clutching a hairbrush in one hand and a picture in the other. She’s joined by Jughead only seconds later, who smiles apologetically. “I’m sorry,” he says. “She’s been waiting for you to come home.”

“You work late checking up on the other boys and girls,” his sister complains with a frown. “Aren’t you tired?”

She is, and she doesn’t want to do much other than curl up in front of the tv in her pajamas with a ton of carbs and some hot tea, but the little girl’s face is so hopeful and she  _ had  _ promised to braid her hair, that she’s unwilling to disappoint.

“You know Jellybean,” she says, “I bet if I have some of your brother’s super coffee, I’ll be fine.”

Jughead takes the hint and nods at her, the corners of his lips twitching in a way that she thinks might mean he’s suppressing a smile. “There’s some in the pot.”

It’s Betty’s turn to smile, and he adds, “We had enchiladas for dinner. There’s some left, if you’d like any?”

Jellybean blinks at her hopefully and Jughead widens the door just enough that she’s convinced. “Just a small portion,” she says. “Thank you.”

Jughead plates up some food and sets it to heat in the microwave as she takes a seat on the couch to look at the drawing Jellybean has done for her. “That’s you and this is me and you’re braiding my hair at the North Pole,” she explains. “And there’s Santa and some more elves and Jughead is making hot chocolates because you told him the secret recipe.”

She laughs at that and the little girl beams delightedly. “I love it.”

“Okay JB, give Betty some peace to eat her dinner please,” he warns, and adds another apologetic “Sorry.”

She shakes her head at him - it’s fine - and accepts her plate of beef enchiladas. “Thank you.”

He shrugs like it’s nothing and then hovers awkwardly while she eats. Pretty quickly, she works out from Jellybean’s willful expression that she’s not going fast enough, and so she stuffs in her final few mouthfuls in the most unlady-like fashion.

“Okay,” Jughead’s sister says determinedly. “ _ Now  _ can you braid my hair?”

  
  
  
  
  


“Am I really supposed to do that every morning?” Jughead asks once he rejoins Betty on the couch having put his sister to bed. 

“You’ll get faster.”

“Betty, it took me nearly thirty minutes!”

“Like I said,” she smiles, “You’ll get faster.”

It’s quiet for a moment, and she finally dares to ask, “You’re not mad at me are you?”

He frowns. “Why would I be mad?”

“We’re lying about the North Pole; you got called into Jellybean’s school because she found me asleep on your couch dressed… like I was.”

“She’s six, so I’d rather her think you were on the couch dressed like that because you’re an elf, rather than know the  _ real  _ reason.”

Her cheeks flame with embarrassment. “Right.”

“I didn’t mean…” he starts, but then trails off because he obviously  _ did  _ mean it that way. 

“No, you  _ should  _ judge.”

Jughead shakes his head. “I’m not judging you Betty, I just… I’m JB’s guardian because I don’t want her to grow up seeing adults passed out on a couch like I did. So even though I’m now forced to live in a world of bows and sparkly shoes and  _ braids,  _ apparently, it’s infinitely better than the one I lived in in Greendale. Her world is one where alcohol doesn’t exist in anything other than the abstract, and I want to keep it that way for as long as possible.”

“So elves are okay?”

He smiles and a sense of relief washes over her. “Elves are okay.”

There’s another pause - slightly more comfortable this time, aside from the fact that Betty keeps thinking of Veronica’s words from earlier.  _ Just invite him. _

She takes a chance. “I don’t know if you have any plans this weekend but my friend at work is hosting a little drinks thing to celebrate that she just got engaged, and she said I should invite someone and I don’t really know anyone other than you and…” she trails off to take a breath, realising from her lack of oxygen that she’s rambling, and then continues. “Um, so what I’m trying to say is would you like to go with me? To Veronica’s drinks thing?”

Jughead doesn’t say anything for a moment - just sort-of blinks at her. And then, flatly, he says, “I have Jellybean.”

It’s an answer and an explanation all in one and it need no elaboration. She nods just once and tentatively suggests, “You could get a sitter?”

His jaw tightens and Betty senses this was the wrong thing to say. “I don’t get just anyone to watch her.”

“Right, of course, I -”

“- I don’t go out,”

“Sorry,” she tries. “I shouldn’t have -”

“- I watch Bill Nye and look forward to the time of night when I can watch prison documentaries. I don’t drink and I don’t go to restaurants or like fancy food.”

Betty opens her mouth to ask why he’s telling her this; to apologise for offending him, but he beats her to it.

“Maybe you should go back to your apartment.”

His face is unreadable and she feels a sting in her chest, but, ultimately, rises from the couch.

“I’m sorry,” she apologises. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Jughead blinks again, this time his expression shifting to something more definable. Something more like confusion, but he doesn’t elaborate with words. 

She doesn’t ask.

At his apartment door, they share an awkward goodbye that feels horribly like it means something more than just that one simple word, and she crosses the hall back to her place feeling bewildered, and like she’s lost something.  

She showers and makes a mug of peppermint tea which she doesn’t drink, and then crawls into bed tired, yet unable to stop thinking about whatever it was that just happened in Jughead’s living room. 

  
  
  
  
  


Whether he’s avoiding her or not, Betty isn’t sure, but she doesn’t see or hear from Jughead - or Jellybean for that matter - for the rest of the week. When Friday evening arrives, she wears the black lace dress that still had the tag on and takes the subway across the river to the East Village. Veronica gushes over her outfit when she arrives at the penthouse apartment, and Betty finds herself wondering which one of the couple’s parents have the money to make this living situation possible. She blushes despite the fact that she hasn’t asked this aloud, and silently reprimands herself for such a judgemental thought. 

“Meet my fiance, Reggie,” Veronica instructs. “Babe, this is Betty - the new girl I was telling you about.”

“Congratulations,” Betty tells him, shaking his hand. 

She smiles genuinely through the comments he makes about how lucky he is; how wonderful  _ his girl _ is; how happy they are, and yet there’s a slight pang she’s trying to ignore which decides to settle in her chest. 

Later, as she’s clutching a glass of pinot noir, her colleague joins her in the kitchen. “So that guy in your building, you didn’t invite him?”

She feels a rush of affection for the other woman - for her assumption that the reason Jughead isn’t here couldn’t possibly be that he doesn’t want to be her date for the evening. Her mind casts back to earlier in the week when she’d asked if he wanted to join her and he’d practically shooed her out of his apartment.

“No,” Betty replies. “I didn’t.”

The brunette doesn’t push anything, just winks and says, conspiratorially, “Maybe next time.”

“Yeah,” she mumbles. “Maybe.”

  
  
  
  
  


It’s almost one am when Betty tips the cab driver and then enters the code for her building, shoving the heavy lobby door with her shoulder. She shivers in the change of temperature, grateful for the increasing warmth as she steps into the elevator. 

At her floor, she fishes for her key in her purse, finding it only a few steps from her apartment. Just as she turns it in the lock, the door opposite opens, making her jump a little.

“Hey,” Jughead says softly.

He’s wearing sweats and a t-shirt with a dark grey ‘S’ on it, and, strangely, a beanie shaped like a crown too. “Hi.”

“You got the right apartment this time.”

“I avoided the egg nog.”

He smiles and there’s a dimple. “Good choice.”

“You’re up late,” she says after a pause. 

He shrugs. “I made the coffee extra strong and now I can’t sleep.” There’s another pause - longer this time - her key still in the door. “There’s still more than half a pot left if you’d like some?” 

Betty thinks about his offer, chewing on her bottom lip as she recalls their last conversation and tries not to look at the way he’s leaning against his door with those soft eyes of his. “That sounds good,” she decides aloud. “But…”

“Right,” he says on something of a sigh. His head is cast down and Betty realises that he thinks she doesn’t want to join him. “I’m sorry,” he starts before she can elaborate. “For earlier in the week… the way I responded after you invited me tonight. But yeah, it’s late and -”

“- Oh, I meant…. It’s not that I don’t… Just, this dress is a little tight.” Jughead looks up. “I could use a change of clothes.”

His smile grows, albeit tentatively, and Betty feels her cheeks flush. “I’ll just…” she gestures beyond her door.

Jughead nods. “You want anything to eat? There’s some leftover spaghetti from dinner.” He frowns and then scratches at his neck. “I don’t know why I offered you that… We have other food. Bagels? Or uh…. hot pockets or -”

“- Just the coffee is great,” she tells him gently so he won’t continue to babble. “Thank you.”

He nods again. “Right.”

“Two minutes,” Betty says, holding up her fore and middle fingers as if he doesn’t understand what she means, before stepping into her apartment.

Quickly, she exchanges her dress for a pair of leggings and a chunky-knit sweater that’s soft and warm, and then pulls her hair into a bun so she can wash the makeup off her face. She checks her appearance in the mirror, tries not to question why she’s kind-of excited to go across the hall to drink coffee, and then grabs a bag of chips from the cupboard. She  _ is _ kind of hungry, but she doesn’t want to eat Jughead’s food when she has her own: it doesn’t seem fair.

With her keys in one hand and the bag of chips in the other, Betty knocks lightly on Jughead’s door so as not to wake his sister. He answers quickly, pulling open the door with an expression that betrays the fact that he’s nervous.

“Hi,” he says. “Come in.”

Betty steps into the living room and then holds up the bag of chips. “I grabbed these if you want to share.”

“I guess I didn’t really sell the spaghetti leftovers,” he half-chuckles, plunging his hands into his pockets. 

“It’s not that,” she starts. “It’s just -”

“- The chips are probably a wise choice. My cooking skills are pretty limited.”

“I’m sure they’re great,” she reassures. “The enchiladas were pretty good.”

“They’re not,” Jughead laughs quietly, “But I appreciate your positivity.”

Betty feels a little like she’s lingering awkwardly as he pours the coffee, and so waits by the couch where there’s a new stack of pictures on the coffee table. The one on the top has a large Christmas tree in the centre, and two people she assumes to be Jughead and Jellybean at the side holding brightly-coloured boxes.

“I should probably teach her about using both sides of the paper,” Jughead says, handing her a mug filled with hot coffee. 

“She likes drawing huh?” Betty asks. “These are new.”

“Yeah.” He rubs at the back of his neck - something she recognises now to be a habit. “She actually drew one for you. I think it’s in her room though - she was saving it for when she next sees you.”

She thinks of Polly’s twins, Juniper and Dagwood, and wonders whether either of them has ever drawn her any pictures from their room at the farm, or if they even know of her at all. 

“Betty?”

“Yeah?”

Jughead is blinking at her from the couch. “I said, you can sit down if you like.” 

Only then does she register that she’s still standing, and she sets her mug on the table so as not to spill on the cushions. “Right.”

She looks again at the pictures on the table. “You know, if you ever need anyone to watch her, I’d be happy to.”

“That’s kind of you to offer,” he replies. “But I don’t usually have anyone look after her other than my best friend and her fiancé. Just… trying to make her understand I’m always going to be here.” He rubs at his neck again. “It’s why I… Why I was unintentionally rude. There was something I promised her when we first moved here and -”

“Jughead,” she says gently. “You don’t have to explain. It’s… I get it.” There’s a strange feeling in her chest, like a rush of affection maybe, though different to how she’d felt towards Veronica earlier, and it makes her want to move closer - close enough so she can hug him - but she doesn’t dare. Instead, she makes use of her hands by cradling her mug as she drinks her coffee. 

“Betty, I’m sorry,” he sighs. “ I really shouldn’t have spoken to you like I did the other day.”

She nods, because he’s right, and in bringing it up again, she realises it still stings.

(She realises that it  _ stings _ because she likes him) 

“It was a nice offer but if I’m honest, even if I didn’t have Jelly, I probably wouldn’t have come.”

Again, there’s a sting in her chest and there isn’t much for her to say to that, other than, “Oh.”

“I don’t mean… it’s not you, just… I kind of hate bars and clubs and… meeting new people, I guess.”

At that she raises an eyebrow as she sips at her coffee and Jughead chuckles quietly. 

“This is different.”

“Yeah?” Betty pauses in her subsequent sip, holding the mug so that her lips brush against the rim. Her voice feels a little breathy. “How?”

He shrugs. “Because you live across the hall and you’ve already passed out on my couch and…” she doesn’t hear the rest. The  _ because I like you _ she’d been hoping for (and, truthfully, half-expecting) doesn’t come, yet rings in her ears mockingly. 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always HUGELY appreciated.
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr at @itsindiansummer13


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